


The Carpenter's Son

by Zimra



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abuse, Easterlings - Freeform, Edain, F/M, Gap Filler, Gen, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 21:57:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1873965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zimra/pseuds/Zimra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An untold story of conquered Dor-lómin, in which an Easterling carpenter has a child by his Hadorian slave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ardan

**Author's Note:**

> The chapters in this story are not in chronological order, because I wrote them out-of-order and developed certain elements of the story as I went, and I'm not finished yet. This is essentially a drabble collection, full of scenes that I'm coming up with as I go along. I have, however, included dates and other relevant chronology information at the beginning of each chapter, so hopefully that helps.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Ardan.

Ardan has known for as long as he can remember that the carpenter is his father, but the word has never passed between them. Gregan is a large man, tall for an Easterling, and wears his dark hair short. He is not warm or kind, but he is a patient teacher, never losing his temper with the boy or striking him if he makes mistakes. He is not cruel, not the way some of the others are, and he speaks little outside of work.

Ardan is his mother’s son in many ways; he’s taller than the carpenter and not as stocky, and his face is more like his mother’s with her bright blue eyes, but his skin and hair are darker than hers. These things mark him out from most of the other slaves, though he’s hardly the only one among them with Easterling blood. 

His mother has no other family, so she keeps a close eye on her son, and he is devoted to her in turn. She has long pale hair and a face covered in freckles, and is very beautiful. When Ardan has a few hours to spare he keeps her company, helping her while she cooks or washes clothes, and she tells him stories she heard from her own mother (who was just a girl when the Easterlings came) about the time before the Incomers. 

He sometimes sees his mother and the carpenter standing very close to each other, talking in low voices. Occasionally he catches his mother crying, but she always refuses to tell him what’s wrong. Sometimes when she rolls up her sleeves he can see bruises on her arms, but he doesn’t dare mention them. He wishes with all his might that there was some way for him to help her, but he knows there is nothing he can do. 

As he gets older, he starts to hear things from the men who labor for the carpenter. Some of the workers are Gregan’s own thralls, and others he borrows from his neighbors for especially large projects. Most are young men, older than Ardan but too young to remember the days before. They talk a great deal in their own language while they work, and the carpenter does not seem to care as long as they don’t become lazy. Most Easterlings speak at least a little of the slave tongue, but Ardan is not sure how much the carpenter understands. 

The men are careful, though, speaking in vague or metaphorical terms unless they know they cannot be heard. Sometimes, when the carpenter is gone from the house, they speak of revolt, weighing the costs against the potential rewards.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you what happened to Brodda’s people? Some vagrants murdered him and ran off, and Lorgan executed the entire household.”

“Lorgan is old and childless and his health is failing. Even if he names a successor, don’t you think there will be strife among them when he dies?”

They fall silent whenever they notice Ardan listening, knowing that the carpenter favors him even if he won’t call him his son. They’re afraid the boy will let something slip, but he knows that he never would. 

Ardan grows up to hate the Incomers, especially the warriors. He hates the way they smirk when they look at him, hates their casual cruelty. He even hates the carpenter sometimes, though he can’t always bring himself to do it.


	2. Dineth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet Dineth.

She was seventeen when Orfell lost her in a drunken game of dice to Gregan the carpenter (or rather, Orfell was drunk, Gregan was not - he rarely drinks). Dineth remembers how scared she was when the carpenter took her arm and led her away from the only home she’d ever had, too scared to move or speak or cry when he took her to his bed that first night. 

She no longer fears him so much, but she has never lost the sinking feeling she gets when he approaches her, and takes her arm, and leads her away.

He is not cruel. At least, he does not hurt her deliberately, just for the sake of causing her pain. He does not beat her, except for once years ago when he lost his temper. But neither is he kind, or gentle, or at all concerned with her wishes. That which he wants, he takes, and she knows better than to try to change his mind. 

He has never been married, nor has he ever expressed a desire to be - not to her (though it is not unheard of for a man to marry his slave) or to anyone else. Dineth remembers a time when she expected to have a husband one day, but she has not thought of it seriously in years. What could she possibly want with one? Who would want her, anyway, with a half-grown bastard son? Would Gregan even allow it?

She does not know the answer to the last question, because she and Gregan have never discussed marriage. The carpenter isn’t much for talking, and she’s never needed to bring it up. What good would a husband do her? She already has one more man than she wants. 

When she and the carpenter do talk, it’s about his work or hers, or other people in the village, or Ardan. He always asks her about the boy, though he has never once called him his son. Sometimes Dineth resents him for it; he could have married her and her situation would be no different, except that he would not have condemned her son to a life of slavery - but then she imagines her boy growing up idolizing the soldiers and thinking he deserves the right to win girls in games of dice, and she is fiercely, selfishly glad that he is _her_ son, not Gregan’s.


	3. Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FA 498

That winter is one of the coldest she can remember, so cold that she is almost glad of the nights when Gregan comes to the tiny room off the kitchen that she shares with Maewen and wakes her silently with a hand on her shoulder. Then she can get up from her thin mattress on the floor, carefully lay her blanket over the sleeping Maewen to give the woman a little extra warmth, and follow him to his room. The bed (which he surely built himself) is the largest and softest she’s ever encountered, and she knows that once he is through with her she can curl up beside him under the thick quilt until dawn. Any pain he has caused her will fade in the heat from his body, and for a few hours at least she will not have to shiver.


	4. Hate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FA 500

Dineth found Maewen in the kitchen, as she expected. Her friend looked up from the vegetables she was chopping and stopped, plainly surprised to see her there. “You’re back awfully early. Are you alright?” she asked.

Dineth sat down at the small wooden table, the fabric of her dress stretched tight over her huge stomach as she struggled to sit comfortably in the hard chair. She picked up the piece of sewing she had brought with her, a half-finished gown for a newborn baby, and began to stitch, not looking up at the older woman. “I was carrying water from the well, and I kept stopping to rest because my back hurt, but I didn’t think anyone could see me. I had to make another trip, but just as I was about to leave Gregan came out of the workshop. He looked angrier than I’d ever seen him - I was terrified, but he ordered me to stop and go inside, and told me he would finish the work.” 

She was silent for several moments, and Maewen set down her knife and wiped her hands on her apron, watching with concern.

“Why is he doing this?” Dineth cried at last, throwing the piece of cloth down on the table. “Why is he acting like he cares? Does he want me to be grateful? He hasn’t said more than a few words to me about the child - I don’t even know if he means to let me keep it. I don’t know whether I should be scared of what he might do, or glad that things haven’t been worse.” There were tears running down her cheeks now, and she wiped at them helplessly with the sleeve of her dress. 

“Do you hate him?” Maewen asked quietly.

Dineth stared down at the table, running her hands over its rough surface. “Sometimes,” she answered at last. “But sometimes...right now, I think I’m too tired to hate him.” She was always tired these days, but now her whole body felt heavy with exhaustion, as if she had been completely drained of energy by her outburst.

“Oh, child,” the older woman said softly, leaning over to wrap an arm around Dineth’s shoulders. Dineth leaned against her, knowing as they both did that she and her unborn child were completely at the mercy of their inscrutable master, and that nothing Maewen could say would make things any better.


	5. I'll Never Leave You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FA 510

Gregan had been too tired to send for her the night before, and she had thought nothing of it until he failed to appear the next morning. It was so unlike him to sleep late that she went to his room to make sure he was alright and found him still in bed, shivering and sweating with fever.

Maewen went at once to the nearest healer, an elderly Easterling man who saw their master’s condition and berated them for not bringing him sooner. “He should have you all beaten for your negligence,” he snapped, before starting to examine his patient more thoroughly. The two women exchanged nervous glances; they had not even noticed that Gregan was ill until today, and the carpenter certainly hadn’t said anything about it. Dineth could count on one hand the number of times he’d been sick in the past twelve years, and it had never caused him more than a minor inconvenience before. Now he drifted in and out of sleep as the old man looked him over, his glassy eyes not seeming to recognize the faces above him. 

The healer gave Dineth and Maewen careful instructions on how to care for Gregan, and made them each repeat back what he had said before he was satisfied. The rest of the household had gathered in the yard by the time he left, and he surveyed the solemn faces before him with a hint of pity in his dark eyes. “Keep the child out of the room,” he ordered, pointing at Ardan, who stood beside his mother looking slightly bewildered. “If he gets any worse, come to me right away.” Then he shuffled off down the road again, leaning on his walking stick. 

By general, undiscussed consensus, the task of caring for Gregan fell to Dineth. She resented this a little, but it made sense, and she did not feel like arguing. She checked on him every few hours in addition to her regular work, placing cool cloths on his forehead and giving him water whenever he was able to keep it down. Little changed that day, or the next; when he wasn’t asleep he seemed to be off in another world, muttering to himself or staring straight ahead as though he could see something she couldn’t. Once she thought she heard him say her name, but he did not seem to notice that she was there. 

At some point it occurred to Dineth how easy it would be for her to kill him - he was so far gone that he probably wouldn’t even notice. She’d thought about it before, lying beside him on nights when he had been particularly rough with her, imagining what would happen if she hid a knife under the mattress and cut his throat while he slept.

Dineth brushed the thought aside. She knew what would happen: if they caught her, they’d hang her. If Gregan died of this illness, they might hang her anyway just to be sure, even if there was no proof she’d done anything to harm him. And there was no guarantee that the others would be spared retribution, either. 

When Dineth left Gregan’s room on the evening of the second day, she found Ardan waiting for her just outside the door. She smiled wearily at him, though something about the way he was looking at her made her stomach clench. 

“Mother, what will happen to us if Gregan dies?” he asked, looking up at her with fear in his blue eyes. When she didn’t answer right away, he continued, “Hathol said that since he has no heir, everything will go to his uncle. He said the uncle probably won’t want to keep us.”

Dineth nodded. Gregan never spoke of his childhood, but she knew he’d been orphaned young and put in the care of relatives. None of them had ever met this uncle, who lived in another village, but everyone in the area knew that Gregan had left home as a young man because the two of them had not gotten along. 

She ruffled her son’s dark hair. “Hathol should not have said that - he only means to frighten you. But he’s right. If Gregan dies, there is no guarantee that any of us will be able to stay together.”

“No,” Ardan said, shaking his head stubbornly, “That won’t happen. I’ll never leave you.”

She pulled him into a hug, and she could feel the boy trembling as he tried to hold back his sobs. She wanted to assure him that nothing would ever separate them, promise that she would always be there, but Dineth could not bring herself to lie to her son. 

After sending Ardan to the kitchen to help Maewen, she went out into the yard to find Hathol. He was a big man in his mid-thirties, the oldest of the slaves Gregan had trained to help him in his work, and the others considered him a leader of sorts. He had been rather scornful of Dineth when she first came to Gregan’s house, and though they had gotten used to each other over the years she had no illusions about him liking her.

She walked over to where he and Sarnor were clearing away whatever they had been working on as the light started to fade. Hathol didn’t look up when she stopped in front of him, but Sarnor glanced nervously at both of them. 

“You gave Ardan quite a scare today,” she said, a hint of accusation in her voice. 

Hathol scowled at her. “I was just trying to give the boy a little warning. I could have told him worse - but he doesn’t need to worry.” His tone turned malicious. “I’m sure you’re doing everything you can to save the master. Would you miss him if he died? Him and that fine bed of his?”

She heard Sarnor make a reproachful sound at the other man’s words. The part of Dineth that was exhausted and tense to the point of snapping wanted to scream at Hathol, but instead she heard her voice harden. “And I suppose you’d be happy to see him dead? How good do you think your chances are of seeing Mirien again if they send you away?” 

Hathol’s face twisted in anger, but he did not reply. Dineth turned and walked back to the house, knowing she’d struck a nerve; Hathol’s wife and their two children lived in a different household nearby, and he had likely been thinking of them when he’d spoken to Ardan.

On the third day, tensions were running so high in the household that Dineth kept to Gregan’s room as much as she could. He tossed and turned for most of the morning, once even startling her with a loud cry, yet he did not wake. She held one of his hands and sang an old song with a simple melody, as much to calm herself as him. It seemed to work, though, and after a while he settled into a deep sleep. 

The stress of the past few days had taken its toll on her, and Dineth dozed in her chair until she felt Gregan’s hand move. She opened her eyes to see him looking up at her, exhausted but lucid. “Dineth?” His voice was hoarse and quiet, and his grip on her hand felt weak, but he was properly awake and speaking for the first time in days. She helped him to sit up in bed and gave him some water; he could hold the cup on his own even though his hands still shook slightly. She couldn’t help smiling a little from sheer relief as she got up to tell Maewen the news. 

Just before she opened the door, Gregan asked, “Were you singing?” Surprised, Dineth stopped and nodded - she hadn’t been sure he could hear her. 

“You have a good voice.” Was he smiling? She suddenly felt strange and unsure, so instead of answering she turned her eyes to the floor and left the room.


	6. News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FA 499

He had dismissed the thralls to their evening meal, and planned on returning to the house to eat as soon as he was finished; the delicate carving on this particular commission was the kind of work he only trusted himself to do. And so it happened that he was alone in his workshop, deep in concentration, when he heard a quiet knock at the door. 

Without looking up from his work Gregan called out a gruff “Come in,” only turning around once he had heard the door swing open and closed again. Dineth stood there with her eyes downcast and her hands clasped behind her, back pressed to the wall as though reluctant to come any closer. She looked more tired than usual, and he frowned slightly when he noticed the traces of fear she was trying to keep from her face. He had not sent for her, and he was not late for supper; there was no reason for her to be here unless she had something important to tell him, and from the look of her it wasn’t good news.

“Come here and tell me what happened,” he ordered, getting up from his chair and waiting for her to approach him. Dineth walked forward carefully, and he couldn’t help admiring the way her hair fell back to frame her face when she lifted her head to look at him. She looked paler than usual beneath her freckles.

“I did not mean to disturb you,” she began, and Gregan waved a hand impatiently. _Get on with it._

Responding to the unspoken command, Dineth steeled herself as if expecting a blow, and said, “I am with child.”

Shock froze his mind and body for a few long moments, though it faded slightly when he realized how foolish his reaction was. The girl had been with him for more than a year, and she was young and healthy - he should have expected this. 

“I’ve been wondering for a while, but I wasn’t sure until now, and I didn’t want to say anything until I knew...” she was babbling, something she rarely did when she spoke to him, though he had often heard her chattering to Maewen or Sarnor. His reaction seemed to have set her off somehow, made her nervous.

Gregan said the first thing that came into his head. 

“Is it...is it mine?”

Dineth stared at him with such fierce incredulity that he should have felt angry, but he was still too shaken to care. He took her silence for a yes, and once again felt foolish for asking. None of his slaves would dare go near her, and neither would his countrymen; once Gregan had caught a neighbor’s son and his friend trying to grab Dineth while she walked home from the market, and he’d broken the nose of the boy holding her and knocked the other to the ground before they knew what was happening. 

Still...the idea of having a child of his own blood seemed so strange to Gregan that he’d needed to be sure. 

“Very well,” he told her. “I will return to the house as soon as I’ve finished here. You are dismissed.” His tone made it clear that there would be no more talk on this subject for now.

Dineth looked stubbornly impassive as she curtsied low and left the room, keeping her eyes on the floor. He watched her carefully until she disappeared; her figure was the same as ever, and he had not noticed anything different about her in the past few weeks. Gregan realized now that he knew next to nothing about pregnancy, but surely it would be a long time before the child was born - plenty of time for him to consider what should be done. 

After a moment he returned to his work, the careful focus it required helping him to clear his mind - for now, at least.


	7. Someone To Talk To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FA 498

Dineth stared down into the well, watching the morning sun glinting off the water’s surface below. It was too far down for her to see her reflection, but she did find herself remembering what had happened earlier that morning, when she had left Gregan’s bed and caught a glimpse of herself in the small mirror that hung on his wall. In the dim light of dawn she had seen a frail, frightened girl, her skin ghostly beneath her freckles, her pale hair tousled. 

What could he possibly see in her? she wondered. What had she done to warrant his attentions? There was nothing pretty about her - she was hungry-looking and weary and too frightened to speak most of the time. Not that the carpenter ever spoke much.

She did have more to eat here, she’d noticed. At first Dineth had wondered (with some trepidation) whether this was the result of sharing the master’s bed, but she’d soon realized that she wasn’t being singled out - Gregan simply fed his slaves better than Orfell had. It made sense when she thought about it; Orfell might have more land and a larger household, but he’d been steadily losing his father’s money ever since the old man’s death. Gregan, on the other hand, was well-respected and quietly prosperous despite his modest holdings, and she doubted he spent as much time and money holding feasts for his friends as Orfell did. 

In Orfell’s house she had done her best to make herself invisible, and her old master had never looked twice at her - what had changed? She was only here because she had been in the wrong place at the wrong time; Orfell had bet her because she was there, and Gregan, trying to help his friend save face, had taken an inconsequential slave girl while letting Orfell keep all the money he had lost. She had hoped that the carpenter would tire of her after a few days, but she'd been here for more than two weeks now and he still sent for her regularly. 

Perhaps Gregan didn’t care what she looked like - she was young, she had cost him nothing, and she was his to do with as he pleased. And she would be here to do his bidding for as long as he wished it.

Dineth rarely cried, but the realization hit her like a blow to the stomach and suddenly she was on her knees, sobbing helplessly. All she could do was wait for it to pass and hope that no one saw her, but it did no good - she could hear footsteps approaching from the direction of the house, and a moment later someone sat down on the grass in front of her. She hid her face in her hands, but not before she caught a glimpse of her observer. 

She hadn’t spoken to the other slaves much except for Maewen, but she knew all of their names by now, and Sarnor had stood out so much when she met him that his was one of the first she had learned. He was half-Bëorian, and looked it; he was shorter than the rest of the men, with curly black hair, dark eyes, and skin a few shades darker than hers that tanned easily in the sun. Like her, he was quiet, and though he seemed comfortable around the other men he never spoke much. And he always smiled at her when he saw her, which so far made him friendlier than the rest of them put together.

As her sobs began to slow, she felt a bit ashamed that he had seen her, though she knew it could have been far worse: he could have been Hathol, or any of the other slaves, or even Gregan.

“Are you alright?” he asked, but Dineth still could not speak for crying. She wasn’t looking at him and so did not see him reach out to place a tentative hand on her shoulder, but she did flinch violently away from his touch, pressing herself against the wall of the well beside her. 

Sarnor drew his hand back quickly. He looked alarmed at first, then concerned, and even a little sympathetic; there was no scorn or anger on his face. After crawling back a foot or so, he sat on the ground and watched her with wide dark eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, once she was no longer crying. “I didn’t mean to scare you - I won’t do it again.”

Dineth finally looked at him, wiping her eyes on her sleeve and sniffling. “What are you doing here?” she asked. 

“Maewen sent me to get firewood, and I heard you crying. I thought you might have gotten hurt, or maybe just needed someone to talk to…” he shook his head, looking embarrassed. “If you’d rather be alone, I’ll go.” Then he frowned. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

Was she hurt? Dineth wasn’t sure how to answer. She felt sore and miserable, but she hadn’t fallen or injured herself, which she suspected was what Sarnor meant. Maybe he was worried that she couldn’t walk back to the house. “You don’t have to go,” she said, getting to her feet again. Sarnor quickly stood as well, still keeping his distance. “I’m getting water for Maewen - if you wait with me, we can walk back together.”

Sarnor’s face broke into a tentative smile. “Of course,” he said, and somehow she managed to smile back.


	8. They Are Cruel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FA 499 (set several months before "News")

Maewen had just set the large pot over the fire when she heard the bedroom door open behind her. “I thought I heard him come in late last night, so I let you sleep for a bit,” she said, then turned around and gasped at the sight of the girl’s bruised face.

“Is it bad?” Dineth asked in a small voice. 

Maewen shook her head, looking pained but no longer surprised. “I hoped this would never happen, but they all do it sometimes.” She crossed the room and pulled the girl into her arms as Dineth began to cry. “What happened?”

“He came in later than usual, after I’d already fallen asleep, and he grabbed me and dragged me to his room. H-he was drunk, Maewen! I’d never seen him like that before. He was drunk and so angry and I got scared, and I…I told him I didn’t want to. He hit me. I begged him to leave me alone, and he hit me again, I don’t know how many times. And then he…” she was crying too hard to speak.

“He forced you, then sent you away?” Maewen guessed. That made sense - the girl did not usually return from Gregan’s room before morning. 

Dineth nodded, her forehead still resting on her friend’s shoulder. “I couldn’t stop crying afterwards, so he shouted at me to leave.”

Maewen just held her, stroking her hair gently. “Oh, Dineth,” she murmured, “all these men are cruel. They will all find some reason to hurt you - if it hadn’t been last night, there would have been another time, another reason. You did nothing to deserve this, you must remember that.”

She led Dineth over to a chair and sat down beside her, taking both the girl’s hands in her own. 

“But if I hadn’t…” Dineth took a few deep breaths, trying to control her tears. “Maewen, I don’t want this to happen again. What should I do?”

Maewen sighed, a part of her wishing that Dineth had not asked her advice. She had been a young woman when the Incomers came, had seen terrible things then and in the decades since. It pained her to have to say such things to a girl who had known no life but this, but there was nothing else she could do. 

“Hopefully you won’t have to worry about it for a while,” she said gently. “Chances are he’ll leave you alone until your face heals a bit - he may not want to look at you like this. On the other hand, he might still be in a mood to take out some of his anger. If he sends for you again, the only thing you can do is try your best not to upset him, and it may not work. But I don’t think that will happen,” she assured her when Dineth let out a frightened whimper. “Gregan’s the sort of man who won’t want to be reminded that he lost his temper. He feels it is beneath him.”

“But what if I can’t do it? What if I panic again?” 

“You’re a brave girl, Dineth. I know you can get through this. And,” Maewen hesitated for a moment, “there’s one more thing. It might be a good idea for you and Sarnor to be careful for a while.”

“What does Sarnor have to do with this?” Dineth asked anxiously.

“Well, you two do spend a lot of time together, and I’m sure Gregan has noticed. He’s not one to jump to conclusions, but if this is the first time you’ve refused him, he might suspect that something else is going on. If he gets it into his head that you and Sarnor are involved, you could both get in serious trouble.”

“But we’re not! And I don’t want to have to tell Sarnor that we need to avoid each other - what if he thinks I’m angry with him?” Dineth looked dangerously close to tears again.

“Sarnor’s a good boy, he’ll understand,” Maewen said, squeezing the girl’s hand. “And maybe the others will understand your situation a bit better, once they’ve seen you.” 

“I don’t want anyone to see me,” Dineth whispered, staring down at the floor. “What if they say something to me?”

“If any one of those men says a damn thing, send them to me,” the older woman said fiercely. 

Dineth tried to smile, but there were tears in her eyes again. It was starting to get late, Maewen realized, and delays in their work would only attract attention. “Come, dear, we have work to do,” she said, standing up. Today, she would try to make sure everything was as ordinary as possible. That would be best.


	9. Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FA 507

Hathol stood under the big oak tree on the edge of the yard, talking to a woman Ardan didn’t recognize. She had long golden hair covered by a shabby kerchief, and she held something in her arms. Ardan stepped closer, curious, and he saw the woman carefully hand whatever she was carrying to Hathol.

It was a baby, wrapped in a patchwork blanket and making gurgling sounds. It seemed quite happy in Hathol’s arms. Ardan stared; he had never seen a baby up close before, and he’d certainly never seen gruff, resentful Hathol smile like that. 

A moment later, however, he looked up and spotted Ardan, and the smile disappeared. “What are you doing out here, boy? Doesn’t your mother need you in the house?” he asked, sounding annoyed.

The woman turned around, looking surprised to see him there. “Are you Dineth’s son?” she asked gently, and when he nodded she smiled at him, which somehow made her look sad. “I met you before, when you were very young. I’m sure you don’t remember. My name’s Mirien, I’m Hathol’s wife.”

“Hello,” said Ardan, smiling back. He hesitated for a moment, then pointed to the child in Hathol’s arms. “Is that your baby?”

“Would you like to meet her?” When Ardan nodded eagerly, Mirien took the child back from Hathol and crouched down so that Ardan could see. “This is our daughter, Rilien.”

The baby was very small, with bright blue eyes and no hair on her head. She had no teeth either, Ardan saw as she grinned up at him. He carefully reached out towards her, laughing with surprise and delight when she grabbed one of his fingers in a tight fist. 

When he glanced up again, he was surprised by the softness of the expression on Hathol’s face. Ardan wondered whether it made the man sad that he couldn’t see his baby every day, or live in the same house as his wife. How often did he get to visit them? 

Suddenly something occurred to Ardan that had never crossed his mind before: if he had a father who belonged to another household, like Hathol did, he had never visited Ardan or his mother. Why was that? Perhaps he had no father - he could not recall his mother ever mentioning one.

But before he could contemplate this any further, he heard Maewen’s voice calling out to him from the kitchen door. “Ardan! Your mother needs you, child!”

Reluctantly, he uncurled the baby’s fingers from his own and waved goodbye to her and Mirien before running back to the house, ducking between Maewen and the door and finding his mother sitting before the fire, unraveling a skein of wool. 

“There you are,” she said when she saw him. “Come here and help me for a minute.” She moved his hands so that he was holding them out before him, then placed the circle of yarn around his hands. He obediently held his arms still so that the yarn would stay taut as she wound it into a ball; he’d done this for her many times before. 

Ardan kept turning his question over in his mind as his mother worked, but he waited until Maewen had left the kitchen for some other task that required her attention before saying anything.

“Mama, do I have a father? Why doesn’t he ever visit us? Is he dead? Does he live very far away?” he asked.

His mother dropped the ball of yarn. He watched it roll away, unable to do anything about it with the skein still wrapped around his hands, but Dineth quickly bent down to pick it up. She watched him for a moment before speaking. 

“Ardan...” she bit her lip, absently twisting the yarn around one of her fingers. “Listen to me. I will say this once, and then you must remember not to speak of it again. Do you understand?” He nodded, staring up at her with wide eyes.

“Your father is not dead, and he doesn’t live far away.” She looked calm, but he could hear a sort of strain in her voice. “Gregan is your father.”

For a moment, Ardan thought he must have heard wrong. Gregan? Their master, an imposing man who rarely spoke and who Ardan’s mother had always warned him to keep away from, had not even entered his mind as a possibility. Gregan had hardly ever said a word to Ardan, and had certainly never smiled at him the way Hathol smiled at Rilien - Ardan wasn’t sure the man _could_ smile. 

“I know this probably doesn’t make sense to you now, but I promise you will understand better when you’re a little older,” his mother said. “But for now, you must not speak of this to anyone - especially not the master. Promise me?”

Ardan nodded quickly. “I promise, Mama.” It was easy enough to do - the very thought of speaking to Gregan about anything frightened him. The answer to his question had only left more questions in its wake, but he could see that his mother did not want to talk about this anymore, so he kept them to himself. 

Why weren’t the carpenter and Ardan’s mother mother married? They couldn’t be; they behaved nothing like Hathol and Mirien had, even though they lived in the same house and saw each other every day. Why had the carpenter never said anything to Ardan, and why had his mother kept it from him? Did Gregan dislike having a slave for a son? 

He puzzled over this new information as Dineth continued winding the yarn, but had not come to any conclusions by the time she finished and set him to helping her with another task. Reluctant to ask any more questions, he hoped that the understanding his mother had promised wouldn’t take too long to arrive.


	10. The Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FA 512

“Dineth.”

She stopped sweeping, freezing instinctively at the sound of his voice and his heavy footsteps approaching her. What was he doing in the house at this hour? Gregan usually spent this part of the day in his workshop or out in the yard, and he so rarely altered his routine that deviations from it tended to make her nervous.

Leaning the broom carefully against the wall, Dineth turned to face him. “Yes, Master?”

Gregan’s face was impassive, as usual, but he looked calm enough. Wordlessly he held out his right hand, clearly meaning for her to take whatever was in it. Puzzled, she obeyed, staring as he placed something small and smooth on her outstretched palm. 

It was a comb, made of reddish wood and masterfully carved with curving designs of the sort she had often seen embroidered on the clothing of Easterling women. Dineth traced the lines gently with a fingertip, half afraid it would break if she pressed too hard. 

“Don’t worry,” Gregan said, noticing her caution. “It looks delicate, but it’s quite sturdy. It should last a long time.” She could even hear a hint of pride in his voice. 

Dineth stared at him, not sure how to feel or what to think. He was still watching her - was he waiting for her to thank him? She couldn’t summon the words, but he did not seem angered by her silence, and a few moments later he simply turned and walked away.


	11. First Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FA 519

The sun blazed down from a cloudless sky, making the day unusually warm even though it was only mid-morning. Corwen, busy weeding the vegetable garden, paused for a moment to stretch and wipe some of the sweat from her face.

When she looked up, her eyes fell on the path leading up to the house, where a young man was repairing a cart. It was her father’s cart, and it had been broken for nearly a week; all the new arrivals had left Bandor so busy that going to him meant either a long wait or a steep fee. Instead, Corwen’s father had found a young man living nearby who was willing to do the work right away for a reasonable price, and here he was, laboring away in the hot sun just like her. 

Corwen had not paid much attention to him before, but now she got a good look at the boy for the first time. He was only a couple of years older than her, and she did not recognize him, which probably meant he’d come to Sirion recently - Corwen had a good memory for faces, and she felt certain she would not have forgotten his. 

He was darker than most of the Edain living at Sirion, darker even than Corwen’s father, but he did not look Bëorian. His eyes were strikingly blue, and he was tall and muscular and, she thought, not at all unpleasant to look at. It was lucky that he was concentrating too hard on his work to notice her staring, because she found she did not want to stop. 

What was his name? Her father had mentioned it to her in passing, but of course she had forgotten. Corwen had to find out that much at least, before he left. Abandoning the vegetables, she hurried into the house to fetch a cup and some water. After all, he must be very thirsty after working all morning in the hot sun. 

She approached him and called out, “Hello!” to get his attention. The boy looked up at her, startled. 

“I’m Corwen, and that’s my father’s cart you’re fixing. I thought you might want some water,” Corwen explained, holding the cup out to him. “What’s your name?”

He set down his tools and stood up, and Corwen noted that he was even taller than she had thought at first, and that he had a light scattering of freckles across his cheekbones. “Thank you,” he said a little awkwardly, taking the cup and draining most of it before realizing that he had forgotten to answer her question. “My name’s Ardan.”

He did have a very nice face, but he was so serious. Corwen spent several moments imagining how wonderful his smile might look, until she caught herself and realized she was staring again. She smiled in what she hoped was an encouraging way, and said, “Pleased to meet you. Are you new to Sirion?”

Ardan nodded. “We’ve only been here for a few weeks, my mother and I. Out of Dor-lomin.”

“I’d heard something about a group of people arriving from there not long ago,” Corwen said, but privately she was curious; although he talked like a Hadorian, he didn’t much look like one. “Well, I hope you haven’t had too much trouble settling in. I’ve heard it can be difficult at first. I was born here, but that’s what people say.”

He nodded again. “It’s not so bad,” he said, though he still looked solemn. “I’ve a fair bit of skill in carpentry, and there’s plenty of people here willing to pay me to fix things for them.”

“I can see why - the cart looks almost like new,” Corwen said, smiling. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“From my -” Ardan stopped abruptly, and his face seemed to close off. He stood quietly for a moment, not looking at her, and Corwen knew she had somehow managed to ask the wrong question. “From the man who owned me. He was a carpenter, and he taught me some of his trade.” 

“Oh,” said Corwen, and there seemed to be nothing else to say. They stared awkwardly at each other for a few seconds, and then Ardan mumbled something that might have been thanks, handed her the cup, and returned to his work.

Corwen walked back to the house, determined not to hurry even though he probably wasn’t watching her. She resisted the urge to look back and check if he was, at least until she was safely inside the house and could peer out the window. He wasn’t looking up. 

After she had put the cup away, Corwen sat by the window with one of her brother’s shirts that needed mending, reluctant to return to her gardening duties while Ardan worked nearby. 

_He must be half Easterling._ She cursed herself for not realizing it sooner. It would explain everything - his appearance, the way he’d faltered when he mentioned his former master, who must also be his father. Corwen knew little about Dor-lómin as it was now, for those who escaped were few and reluctant to talk about their pasts, but the stories she had heard were grim ones. _A fief of Angband,_ her father had called it once. She couldn’t even begin to imagine growing up in such a place, but it occurred to her that had her grandparents not been allowed to stay in Brethil, she might be living there now. Perhaps she even had distant kin there.

More than anything Corwen wished she had not made things so uncomfortable with Ardan. He wasn’t much older than her, a newcomer in an unfamiliar place, and he seemed like he could use a friend. But after their disastrous first conversation, she wondered if he would even want to talk to her again.


	12. Prize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FA 498

Dineth hated serving when Orfell had guests. She couldn’t help being afraid of the master and his friends, though she was quiet and efficient and for the most part they took no notice of her. Sometimes she had to endure unwanted touches or lewd remarks, but their conversation inevitably proved more interesting than her, and she could slip away and disappear again. 

Tonight at least there were only two of them, Orfell and a man named Gregan. They had known each other since they were young men, but Gregan did not appear at Orfell’s regular gatherings. This didn’t surprise Dineth, though she did wonder why the two men were friends at all; Gregan was reserved and restrained in the face of Orfell’s boisterous carelessness, and where Orfell and most of his friends were warriors from important families, Gregan was a carpenter - a respected, prosperous man who owned land and slaves, but a craftsman nonetheless. 

None of this stopped the two men from spending the occasional long evening drinking and gambling before the fire. Dineth had only refilled Gregan’s cup once since they’d begun, and he had hardly touched it since. Orfell, on the other hand, grew drunker by the hour, and had gotten louder and fonder of his own voice as a result. Dineth might have thought the quieter man would begin to find Orfell’s company grating, but Gregan seemed quite comfortable, even a little amused. 

Though she did not know the rules of the dice game the two men were playing, Dineth could tell that Orfell was losing badly, which did not seem to affect his enjoyment of the game at all. It was late enough that Dineth had begun to grow tired when Gregan finally said, “You’re out of the money you’ve brought, and I won’t be responsible for you ruining yourself.”

“You are never any fun, Gregan,” Orfell protested, reaching for his cup to take another drink before realizing that it was empty. He glanced over to where Dineth stood by the door, clearly meaning to summon her to refill it - then suddenly he laughed. “If you won’t take my money, perhaps something else? Come here, girl,” he called. 

It took a moment for Dineth to realize exactly what he meant, and then she froze. Finally she forced herself to walk forward and stand beside the table, knowing that Orfell would certainly be angry if she did not obey. 

“If I win, I get all of my money back,” Orfell was saying, clearly quite pleased with his own cleverness. “If you win, you keep the money _and_ the girl.”

She could feel Gregan’s eyes on her, his dark, intense stare seeming to pierce straight through her skin. Even so, it was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

“Fine, then,” he said, moving his broad shoulders in the barest suggestion of a shrug.

Dineth could hardly breathe as she watched Orfell take the next turn. He rolled each of the three dice separately, then threw them once more all together. As they landed, both men leaned over to look, and Orfell banged his fist on the table and cursed. 

“You’d have to have the worst luck in the world for me to beat you with a roll like that,” he told Gregan disgustedly. 

The carpenter looked calm as he rolled; Dineth had never ill-wished anyone so hard in her life. When the dice fell for the last time, Orfell swore again, and Gregan smiled slightly. 

“Damn your luck. There’s no need to look so smug,” Orfell grumbled, though he didn’t even look very angry. Dineth thought she might be sick. 

The carpenter sat silently for a moment, contemplating the table before him. Then his eyes returned to Dineth, and this time he didn’t just stare - he scrutinized her inch by inch, as though looking for a flaw in a piece of jewelry he was about to buy. 

“I’ll make you a deal,” he said to his friend. “If you give me the girl, you can keep your money.”

Orfell sighed. “You’re a generous man. If you act like this with everyone, I don’t know how you manage to stay so rich. Take the girl.” He waved an unsteady hand at her, almost knocking over his empty cup. 

Gregan stood, and suddenly he was right in front of her, closer than he had ever been before. He looked to be around thirty, near Orfell’s age but taller, with a powerful build and a bearded face that was almost fearsome in its impassivity. Dineth took a step back without thinking, and wished he would stop looking at her. 

“I’ll leave you to get some sleep, my friend,” he said to Orfell, picking up his dice and putting them back in his pocket.

Orfell snorted. “How good of you. I doubt you’ll be sleeping much,” he said. “Dineth, get your things and meet Gregan by the front door.” When she didn’t move, he glared at her and raised a hand as if to strike, and she fled before either of the men could say another word.

It was dark in the hall, and the rest of the household slept. Dineth moved as quietly as she could, and she made it to the kitchen without mishap, even though she felt as if her heart was pounding loudly enough to wake everyone. 

On the other side of the kitchen was the room where she and most of the other slaves who worked in the house slept. Dineth managed to get the door open without making too much noise, but the room was dark and she almost tripped over a sleeping woman as she made her way to her own bed. It took longer than it should have for her to feel around for her few possessions and bundle them up in a blanket - her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and she kept dropping things. 

“Dineth? What on earth are you doing? Go to bed and stop making so much noise.”

Dineth froze. She couldn’t tell who had spoken, but now she could hear grumbles of agreement from all around her. Surely she ought to tell someone what had happened - what would they think the next morning, when they found her gone? But her mind had gone blank, and all she could do was murmur, “I’m sorry,” and fumble to tie the ends of the blanket together. Clutching her bundle tightly, she got to her feet and made her way back to the door, carefully avoiding stepping on anyone.

As she hurried through the kitchen, still looking down at her feet so that she would not trip, Dineth didn’t see the dim light from the candle until she had almost bumped into the person carrying it. She looked up into the face of Linnel, a woman of about her mother’s age who had been one of Hanneth’s closest friends. 

“Dineth, what - of course, you were serving tonight. Has his guest gone?” She noticed the bundle the girl carried and frowned. “Where are you going?”

_Tell her._ Someone had to know what was happening, someone who wasn’t Orfell. Dineth tried to think, forcing her mind to form the words and say them aloud.

“Orfell, he…he lost me,” she stammered. 

“What are you talking about?” Linnel put the candle down on the table, her eyes wide and worried in her thin face.

“They were playing dice, and Orfell kept losing,” Dineth said, shock making everything seem distant, as though she was speaking of events that had happened to someone else a long time ago. “He ran out of money, so he…he bet me instead. The carpenter won. I have to go.”

“Go? Now?” Horror spread across Linnel’s face as the full meaning of the girl’s words sunk in. “You don’t mean…he _can’t_ have…” She put one hand on Dineth’s head and stroked her hair, as though she were still the small child Linnel had once held. 

“Goodbye,” Dineth said, feeling numb even as the other woman pulled her into a tight hug. “Please tell the others where I went? I don’t know when Orfell will wake up tomorrow, or how much he’ll remember.”

“Of course I will, dearest.” Linnel kissed the top of her head, then reluctantly let go, and Dineth hurried away before the idea of leaving became too painful to consider.

Gregan was already waiting for her just outside the door. She stopped beside him, avoiding his gaze, and he took hold of her upper arm with one hand and led her through the dark yard to a plain, horse-drawn cart that sat waiting for them near the gate. He helped her up onto the seat, a gesture that might have seemed courteous under other circumstances, then climbed up beside her. Dineth edged away, putting as much space between the two of them as she could, and he did not say a word to her as he drove away. She could not help stealing a quick glance back at her home as it disappeared into the darkness behind them.


End file.
